


To Serve at the Pleasure of the King

by M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene to Episode Eight - The Challenge.  D'Artagnan's not quite as sound as he seems as he leaves the field of battle, though youth is ever rejuvenating and by morning he's recovered enough to go about his errand to the Bonacieux's.  An insert that takes place (mostly) between the handshake with Athos and the meeting with Milady de Winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Serve at the Pleasure of the King

_To Serve at the Pleasure of the King_

Athos felt it as the youth gripped his hand, that fine trembling that accompanies the sudden cessation of battle rush and knew immediately what it presaged. “I am impressed at how well you learned your lessons,” he congratulated with his usual quiet formality. “Do me a favor? See that the captain gets back to the tent. I will meet you there shortly.” And he turned away without waiting for an answer.

There was no need to stay and see the deed done. Tréville was an old hand at creative commanding; he would understand the motivation and apply just the right amount of reluctance to keep the Gascon at his side. Athos clamped his hat on his head and strode in search of their reluctant _médico_. 

It was manipulative and underhanded in a way he rarely employed, but ordering d’Artagnan into the tent to submit to medical attention would produce exactly _zéro_ results. Placing the youngster in charge of Tréville’s welfare, however, especially as it had been the captain’s injuries that had given d’Artagnan the chance to earn the new fleur-de-lis on his shoulder … Athos’ principles could withstand the clamor. 

He found their somewhat averse medic standing with Porthos watching an elegant black berlin make its way sedately out of the park. “Can you stop her?”

Two dark heads turned as if manipulated by a master puppeteer. “Stop her?” Porthos parroted. He wanted to, badly, but it was not his nature to prolong things past their natural ending. 

“We may have need of her coach.”

“The captain?” the pair said in unison, instantly sprouting matching grins that dropped off their faces with identical speed at Athos’ next statement.

“And our puppy.”

Porthos took off at a run. Aramis’ boot heel left a perfect about face marching impression in the soil as he turned to follow Athos. 

“He does not look so bad,” the unlikely physician muttered, as hazy gloom replaced bright sunshine between one step and the next, his eyes searching the gloom for the bag he carried in case of just such emergencies. 

He had come to the Musketeers with a bit of hard-earned medical knowledge. Tréville’s keen eye had noticed, and both encouraged and enabled further training with a distant cousin who was a practicing physician in an equally distant province. Aramis had gone, grumbling, and returned, if not a full-fledged doctor, at least a very competent healer. 

“Perhaps you were not watching the same battle as I,” Athos returned drily. 

‘Gentlemen,” Tréville greeted as the tent flap closed behind Athos. 

“Oh for the love of …” Aramis snatched at d’Artagnan as the youth swayed on his feet. “Sit down before you fall down,” he barked, having had less experience with hot-headed youths than their leader.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan snapped back, stiffening his spine as well as his threatening-to-buckle knees as he helped Tréville ease out of the close-fitting leather amour the captain had pulled out of storage.

Athos merely raised an eyebrow, and, as soon as the captain had parted company with his battle gear, ushered the still unwilling Gascon to a seat on a bench across the tent, eschewing any pretense of calculated maneuvers. “You will sit and wait until Aramis can see to you.”

“I don’t…”

“Care what you think.” Athos could snap, too, when necessary. “You _will_ wait.” 

Few could withstand the aristocratic origins of the _Comte_ glare Athos turned on the wilting youth. D’Artagnan lifted his hands in surrender, and winced. “Ow.”

“Be still,” Athos was already working on the unwieldy tunic buttons, “you’ve some badly dented ribs at the very least.” All the Musketeer’s had firsthand knowledge of the lethal weapons LaBarge’s boots constituted. And unlike Tréville, d’Aratagnan had not come prepared to fight, he wore only his street clothes. 

“This is not good, Captain,” Athos heard over his shoulder, “there is much damage to the tissue and muscle surrounding the bone. It is also dislocated and this is likely to hurt a great deal.” Followed by a duet of curses as they all heard bone grate upon bone. He felt d’Artagnan wince again, this time in sympathy. 

“Will he be able to use that arm again, do you think?” the Gascon whispered, recoiling from Athos’ questing fingers pressing lightly up and down his rib cage. 

“Nothing can keep Tréville down for long. Be still,” Athos said again, “you have enough damage of your own to worry about. Lucky for you the broken rib is below any vital organs. These others, though,” his right hand played the top notes of a concerto again, up the taut plane of abdomen, “are badly bruised. There will be no more swordplay for a few weeks.”

Clearly the effects of the battle high were wearing off, there was no immediate reprisal from the youth who was beginning to pant slightly. Unconsciously, d’Artagnan pulled his arm into his side, though even that light contact was unbearable. Straightening only changed the quality of the pain beginning to flare along decapitated nerve endings and instinct canted a sideways, pain-glazed glance at his mentor. 

Athos caved with a sigh. He always meant to allow the youth to suffer the consequences of his choices, else he would never learn, but d’Artagnan’s audacity in the face of overwhelming odds beat down his resistance each and every time. It was not just that he had a soft spot for the youth, for that could be said of each of the Inseparables, there was a bond here that went deeper than even shed blood could explicate. 

“If you will allow me to help you lie down, it will ease the tension causing the worst of the pain. Come, you will need to rise so we can settle you …” Athos glanced over his shoulder as a breath of air sighed through the tent. “Better yet, here is Porthos with the Lady Alice and her conveyance. Aramis? What of the captain?”

“Both of them need to be dosed before we attempt to move them.” Aramis was already mixing potions. He handed the first to Tréville, who drank it down without demur. “Do not make us pour it down your throat,” the pseudo physician threatened, when d’Artagnan scowled and turned his head. “Because we will; without compunction.” 

“We will celebrate, have no doubt of that,” Athos inserted smoothly, anticipating the outburst gathering behind the frown threatening a stormy turn. “But when you are hale and hearty again and can enjoy the consequences of our overindulgence.” 

Aramis and Porthos shared a smothered grin at the intended double entendre.

D’Artagnan accepted the potion, though the face he made after downing it was less about pain than revulsion. “Why must everything you make me drink taste like donkey piss?”

“Because, as often as not, it _is_ donkey piss. Come,” Athos slipped his forearms beneath d’Artagnan’s, lifting him so the new Musketeer gained his feet without losing too much dignity. “Porthos?” 

“Shall I remain here then?” Lady Alice inquired, a small discreet smile plying a silhouette across her lovely features as her lover moved fluidly to support their injured companion. “You will return for me, Porthos? It will be a tight fit for six of us, even in my commodious coach.” 

“If ya want me to, I certainly can,” Porthos replied absently, calculating the necessary steps to the carriage against d’Artagnan’s mortification if he just picked him up and carried him. A nearly imperceptible shake of the head from Athos warned him not to try. Though he rolled his eyes, Porthos accepted the verdict and sidestepped close enough to take d’Artagnan’s weight as Athos released him. “I won’t be long,” he said, smiling his thanks over the younger man’s head. 

The circumspect smile the lady returned was full of poignant regret. Milady Alice drew on the gloves she had removed and demurely took a seat upon the bench d’Artagnan had just vacated. “Do not hurry on my account. Your companion obviously needs you more than I.”

Only d’Artagnan, sagging against Porthos now as the medicinal took effect, missed that quiet insinuation. Porthos accepted the gentle cudgeling with good grace. 

“Our thanks, m’lady.” Athos, hat in hand again, swept her an elegant bow before following his companions from the tent.

t t t 

D’Artagnan woke to brillant sunlight angled directly across the bed he occupied with a snoring companion. He knew instantly it was not the bed he had slept on in the room he had ostensibly rented from Bonacieux, but it took a few moments for the recollection of the competition and his changed circumstances to wake inside his jarred brain box.

It hurt to move, though little more than many a morning as a youth, when he had first begun fencing lessons, for his sword master had never been gentle with him. He did not wish to rouse the cohort sleeping in his bed, so he moved both carefully and quietly, employing every bit of stealth he had learned back home in Gascony tracking game. The stifled groan slipped out all unaware as he sat up, clutching an arm to his side as the broken rib shifted and bit harshly, despite the snugly wrapped bandage a hand span wide around his lean middle. 

He decided, though, quite cold bloodedly, as he moved first one foot, then the other, cautiously to the floor, he would gladly suffer far greater hurt for the ultimate satisfaction of killing the man who had burnt his home to the ground. 

It was Porthos in bed with him, he saw, as he reached for his shirt and britches. Aramis slept sitting on the floor, propped in a corner, arms wrapped around himself, chin very nearly resting on his chest. Athos, as the elder, no doubt, had claimed the single chair and sat with it tipped back against the wall, one booted foot propped against the bed, the ever present hat covering his face.

D’Artagnan glanced around wonderingly as the realization crept into his awareness that these were his quarters now. _His_. Not Aramis’, or Porthos’, or even Athos’, where he had spent so much time over the last several months, fervently hoping and praying for a chance to join their ranks.

The walls were bare, though in the open armoire the folds of a blue cloak echoed the slice of sky he could see through the window and upon the shelf lay the sigil of his newly recognized allegiance to the king. He needed no other accouterments. 

Furtively pulling on clothes, the new Musketeer eased into his coat and warily belted on dagger and sword, then slipped from the room, closing the door behind himself with infinite care. He had business to take care of this morning, before returning to wake his companions and haul them off to the promised celebration. 

His footsteps could be heard clattering down the stairs as the chair legs hit the floor with a thud and the hat announced, “All of three of us would be conspicuous. We’ll draw straws.” The hat tipped up and Athos held out a closed fist sporting several lengths of straw. 

Aramis shot Porthos a quick grin as he rose and they both indulged their leader, though it required no act of divination to know who would draw the short straw.

Athos flourished his hat at his compatriots as he held up the maligned – if only in their thoughts – short bit of hay. The door closed behind him with far less circumspection and a moment later the elder Musketeer’s rapid footfalls on the stairs could be heard as well. As one, Aramis and Porthos moved to the window. 

“They head for the cloth merchant’s,” Porthos observed. “Perhaps Constance will change her mind now that he wears the pauldron of Louis?” 

“Mmmmm,” Aramis mused, “doubtful. I have not found Mistress Constance to be a woman of inconstant mind.” They watched Athos pause as d’Artagnan turned the corner. “I’ve never understood how he can do that – wipe away all traces of the aristo and turn into a shoe cobbler between one heartbeat and the next.” 

“True,” Porthos responded to the constant Constance comment. “It’s a gift; a chameleon, for sure, that one,” he agreed reverently, as Athos blended into the morning marketing crowd as if he was, indeed, no more than a cobbler. 

Athos stopped at the corner, tipped his hat to the watchers in the window and removed it, tucking it into a convenient niche he had used before. His prey, imagining he’d left his shadows behind in an upstairs room, moved swiftly through the crowd without a backward glance, making d’Artagnan that much easier to follow, though Athos kept far enough back that it would be easy to duck into an alley or turn to study some merchant’s wares if necessary. 

It took only one turn to recognize the youth was headed for the home of Bonacieux. Athos’ longsuffering sigh drew curious glances, which he ignored as he leaned against the corner of a large stone building, housing pigs in the lower quarters apparently, since the stench was near overwhelming. One became used to such malodorous venues when one lived in the city, but he did not have d’Artagnan’s earthy appreciation for the stink and moved downwind as the youth strode into the merchant’s house without so much as a by-your-leave. 

He was not long inside, the bag slung over his shoulder appearing rather more bulging than it had initially, but he had not left much at the cloth merchant’s beyond a change of clothing, so there had been little to collect. Athos wondered, briefly and without concern, if the Gascon had hoped for a different outcome to this errand. If so, it did not show on the darkly handsome face as d’Artagnan sauntered on. 

Athos pushed off the cool stone, but held his place as a coach bowling along the thoroughfare slowed to a stop and the door opened – right next to d’Artagnan. Milady’s face appeared and Athos took an involuntary step backwards, then another deliberate one, until he was certain he wasn’t visible. 

The sigh he internalized this time, as he watched the obviously intimate exchange, could have blown a ship of the line off course. An interesting development this, one that would require some thoughtful contemplation before he tackled the awkward conversation evidently necessary. 

D’Artagnan, with a respectful nod, strolled off, Milady watching the straight, supple back with as much interest as malice. A lethal combination to Athos’ way of thinking. The door closed and the coach rolled away before d’Artagnan scratched the itch, allowing himself a single dark look over his shoulder. 

Athos retrieved his hat, strolled to the center of the street and set himself to wait, since d’Artagnan had turned back as soon as the coach was out of sight. Almost as though he had anticipated the seemingly coincidental meeting. 

“You are up early, my friend,” he greeted, assessing the youth from flashing grin to booted toes. “It is a bit strange that you do not look like someone who’s managed to get himself beaten to a pulp a number of times in the last week.”

That flashing grin only broadened. “Yet I am alive, _mon ami_ , and LaBarge is soon to be six feet under. If Richelieu did not just throw the body to the dogs.” The youth raised a hand as though to fling an arm around his mentor’s shoulders, thought better of it and punched him in the bicep instead. “Thanks to you.” 

“I had very little to do with your training, youngling. But do not forget the lessons learned,” Athos admonished, steering them both towards the barracks. “The business that drove you from your bed so early is finished?” he inquired, adding, as though the answer to the first question mattered not at all, “have you broken your fast?”

“Yes, my business is finished,” though the youth did not elaborate, “and no, I have not broken my fast.”

Athos let it go. Now was not the time to tackle this problem. “Perhaps you would care to join us, then, in discovering what cuisine is on offer this morning?”

“Oh, but it is good to be alive this morn!” D’Artagnan laughed, the carefree laugh of the young and still mostly innocent, and flourished an arm, though he did not attempt to bow over it. “Yes, I would care to join you, if you will have me. This morning and every morn to come while we serve at the pleasure of the king.” 

~ ** ~

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings belong to BBC America and its various subsidiaries and successors as assigned. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.


End file.
